


192 - New York Recovery Trip

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Reader-Insert, mental health
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 20:50:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17393489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompts “a fluffy fic about travel to New York with Van? That they walk everywhere and there are many hugs and kisses bc it’s winter” and “the reader gets out of bad relationship, and they turn up at vans and he takes them out to do all of the things they couldn’t do in the relationship?”





	192 - New York Recovery Trip

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Domestic violence (not Van!)

"Van… This is… This is way too much. I can't-"

"Course you can, Y/N. It's not too much because it's not like I can't afford it. More money than I know what to do with. And I owe you from the millions of favours you've done for me and the band over the years, yeah? And Ma says you went over and helped her out with some cake thing the other day?"

"Yeah, but-"

"But nothin'. You deserve good things, Y/N. You've had horrible fuckin' luck with that. Had a bad run of things. I can't… I can't fix everything for you. Would if I could, trust me, but… Let me do this. Come with me to New York and have a good time and just forget everythin' else for a bit. It will be class. I promise. It's not like you've got much else on, right?"

Right. The past fourteen months had seen the slow withdrawal of you from everything in your life. Patrick seemed wonderful at first, they always do. Then he mentioned he didn't like the way your friends spoke to you, even though they spoke just fine. He said work was stressing you out, so you started calling in sick more. Little by little, his whispering advice became the one guiding force in your life. You stopped seeing the girls. You hardly spoke to Van or the guys at all. Social media was deleted; it could have been a lifeline and Patrick knew that. You relied on his income to keep you fed and housed. Family were never spoken of. You existed in a bubble that seemed so safe. He'd made it that way. You versus the world. Then, inside the bubble when things turned bad there was nowhere to go and nobody to save you.

It was a nurse in the emergency room that finally burst the fucked up little world of make believe Patrick had so carefully constructed. You had driven yourself there with a broken arm. The lack of tears unnerved the nurse. The bruises and the flinching and the unwillingness to answer questions were red flags that she wasn't about to ignore. When you wouldn't speak, she pulled a chair over and told you about gaslighting.

"This isn't your fault. You can get your life back. I know you probably think your friends don't care anymore, that they've moved on, but they haven't. They're just sitting, waiting for your call. We could do it right now."

Cast on your arm, you drove home and sat as Patrick cried and said he'd never hurt you again. A week later, when the plaster on your arm was almost shattered like the bone it was trying to keep safe had been, you went back to the hospital. It took four hours of sitting in the waiting room before the nurse appeared. Her shift had started. She saw you sitting and came straight over. She sat next to you, saying nothing.

"Can I borrow your phone?" you asked her.

A month later and you were back living at home. Only what you could carry in one go was saved. Patrick destroyed the clothes and books and music you'd left behind. Most of it was chosen by him. You were a doll and dolls need to be dressed and given activities. Your friends kept bringing gifts, kept checking in. A day didn't go by where at least three different people reminded you that you were loved. It was clear people felt guilty. Everyone thought they should have done more. It's hard though. Things are never as simple as 'oh, I'll just leave,' or 'oh, we'll just go save her.'

Van was home two weeks into the reestablishment of your life. Of all the things you missed in your time on Planet Patrick, he was almost at the top of the list; only after chocolate and making your own decisions. Patrick said junk food would make you "fat" and that you "don't have to worry your pretty little head with making any hard decisions." But Van, Van was a world of spontaneity and freedom and he was slowly giving you all the things you were deprived of.

It was small and slow at first. He was the first person you let hug you. You'd missed authentic human touch that was aimless and pure. He'd make sure that if you went out for coffee that you could take your time reading menus and looking at cakes. When you knew what you wanted, he'd let you use your own money. Technically, it was your parents'. They were transferring what was essentially an allowance to you. It was part of figuring out how to be normal again though. Eventually you'd go back to work, but that was a monumental task.

Van would take you to the films you knew Patrick would just never let you see. You'd go to live gigs; the first few were you standing out of the way of everyone, quiet and still. Step by step you got back into it. Van let you drink and dance with people you didn't know and move freely in any space you wanted to.

They were all completely normal things. Van was acting in a way that was normal for a friend, maybe a boyfriend, to act. But for you, in recovery, they were huge. Each piece of freedom handed back to you was a revolutionary soul-shaking thing that served to rebuild your trust in people and your faith in a life where things could be okay.

A New York holiday though, that seemed too much. Your psychologist, parents and friends all agreed that it was a really, really fucking good idea. In the end, they'd all leave the decision with you. Nobody was going to make you do anything you didn't want to do.

Sitting next to Van on the plane, window seat yours, heart racing and feeling a little bit trapped, you wondered if you'd made the right decision after all. Then, he took your hand and lifted it to his lips. He kissed your wrist and grinned at you. Yeah, no, definitely. It was exactly where you needed and wanted to be.

…

In the taxi you watched the windows fog up. The air outside was cold, almost ready to freeze. It would snow overnight. Van was talking to the driver, telling him about how he'd been to New York a bunch of times and he loved it. Something about it always pulled him back, despite not really knowing anyone who lived there. He had a hold of your hand, his thumb running over the top. It was good that he was always in physical contact. It kept you from spacing out and thinking too much about wasted time and broken bones; it kept you grounded.

The hotel was ridiculously lavish. Van had probably Googled 'most fancy hotel ever' or something innocent and beautiful. There were crystal chandeliers and champagne on arrival and people that spoke like each word uttered was a gift unto the world. The room was high up in the sky and the walls were windows that gave you views of everything. You walked immediately to them and plonked yourself down on the thick carpet. Hands and forehead pressed to the glass, you watched the world.

Van was quiet behind you. He unpacked and checked everything out. You could hear his little laugh when he found all the free stuff in the bathroom. That would never get old for him. When there was nothing else for him to busy himself with, he came and sat next to you, handing you a champagne flute of pink bubbly fizz.

"Do you think this is the most expensive thing I've ever put in my mouth?" you asked. He snorted. Bad timing. The liquid burst from his mouth and nose, dripping from him and the window. You laughed. He tried to wipe it from the glass but it only made it worse. He gave up. "Get your mind out the fucking gutter, McCann,"

"Don't know about what's been in your mouth, but this is easily the most expensive hotel I've ever been in. Dead out of place, aren't we?"

"Yeah. You really didn't need to do this. I would have been happy with Airbnb or something,"

"I know you would 'ave, but…" He shrugged, standing. "Hungry?"

…

New York pizza deserved its reputation. The slice was bigger than your head, and you couldn't quite work out how to eat it. One of the waitresses came over and explained you should roll it up. Her Jersey accent was thick, and you were in love with her just a little bit. You were in love with the city just a little bit, if you were honest. As you walked from the hole in the wall pizza place, down random streets, you tried to memorise every detail.

It was the type of place that illustrated perfectly the divide between class and the divide between worlds. There seemed to be only three types of people in New York. The insanely fashionable and beautiful. They walked with purpose, weaving through crowds with ease. The belonged to the city, regardless of where they originated, and you felt like a messy kid in comparison. Gathering in groups on corners to smoke expensive cigarettes, their hair perfect even in the misty air, their legs bare despite the dropping temperature; it was like seeing the cool senior kids when you'd only just started high school.

Type two were the underclass. The homeless. The ones living on and below the poverty line. Maybe they had inherited apartments from family, New York originals, or maybe they used up 90% of their income on tiny one room flats that had no heating and uneven floorboards. Holes in clothes. Knotted hair. The polar opposite to type one, but significantly less intimidating. More your people than not.

The final type were the tourists, and fuck were they easy to spot. They walked where they weren't meant to, and stopped in the middle of the footpath to read maps and try to ask for directions. You didn't know if Van knew where he was going, but as you trailed his steps you realised it didn't matter. He looked like he knew. He looked like type one, and you by default did too, even if you were looking around with wide eyes and mouth set in a perfect grin. Van had to stop every few blocks and wait for you to catch up. He took your hand and pulled you closer.

"Don't wanna lose you, darlin'. Come on," he said, smiling gently.

The sun was only almost set, but the dark clouds looming had blocked out the last rays of light. Stores and restaurants were lit up with Edison globes in industrial settings and strings of mismatched fairy lights. They twinkled and reflected in windows, drawing your attention each time.

"Is there anything you want to do while we're here? Probably should've asked that before,"

"The park? Aren't there squirrels?"

Van laughed, nodding. "Yeah, but they're fuckin' mental. Just big rats. We'll do that tomorrow. Don't want you in Central Park at night, yeah? Scary,"

"I've survived worse," you replied in a whisper. Van's grip on your hand got tighter.

"Exactly. Don't need no more surviving. Just want to be safe now. How 'bout we go find you one of them stores with the bath stuff. There's a fuckin' massive spa in the room. You can swim about in that for a couple of hours, yeah?"

You nodded, excited and happy.

In the store you made Van smell each and every bath bomb. He was choking with the scent of it all. Dramatic little fuck.

"You smoke! This is not worse than inhaling that crap all the time!"

He grinned and walked away.

You found him a couple of minutes later talking to one of the shop assistants. When you stood next to him, he wrapped an arm around your shoulders. She continued to explain to him the benefits of salt baths. When he thanked her and she left him to it, he picked up two tubs. Lavender and chamomile, and a weird sandalwood mix.

"These are good to help you relax. Good for muscles and all that. Think we should get you some. Might make your arm feel better," he said.

You'd not realised he'd noticed that your arm still ached, especially in the cold. It hurt when people directly referred to injuries sustained. It dragged you out of the warm moment and into the cold and brutal past; a reminder that New York was happening as a direct reply to Patrick.

"Which one do you think you'll like better?" Van asked. He was reading the packets, not looking up.

"Uh. I don't mind. Whatever," you replied quickly. You put the bath bombs on the shelf next to you and walked away, outside and across the busy road. You were lucky to be able to navigate that unharmed.

He would give you a couple of minutes. Everyone had learnt to do that. You turned away from watching the store. Behind you was a high brick wall. There was a cat sitting on top of it. You looked at it and it looked back.

"Hi," you whispered to it. It didn't reply. "Do you have a home? You got a collar, so you must… Doing better than me then." A couple walked past and the man pulled the woman closer when they overheard you talking to the animal. "It's gonna get real cold soon. You should go home, yeah?" The cat walked a couple metres along the wall, then stopped again, it's back to you. You frowned.

"Y/N?"

You turned around. Van had a bag from the store and a very concerned expression. There were a couple of metres between you, and people were walking through the space. Van had no idea what had happened. When there was a pause in the human traffic he moved to stand close to you.

"I got everything you were holding. Didn't know what you wanted," he said because he didn't know what else to say. You nodded and licked your lips. His eyebrows were pulled together and his eyes were searching for any indicators in your face. You'd mastered the ability to hide emotion long ago. "Did… Did I do anything?" You shook your head no. He nodded and looked around. You watched him spot the cat, a small smile flicking across his lips for only a second. He looked back at you. "We'll go back to the room now, yeah?" When you nodded, he did too, then began to walk. You walked behind him instead of next to. Every block he'd check over his shoulder to make sure you were still with him.

Your body was having a meltdown. Half of it was screaming in pain at the proximity of all the people. New York was busy, even in the cold night. People were rushing around, brushing past you with unfriendly force. The other half of you though, just wanted Van to reach out and take your hands from where they were folded under your arms. He wouldn't do that. He was trying to give you space. However, each day with him was just making him exempt from that rule. If you wanted touching, you'd have to initiate that.

You skipped a few steps so that you were so close behind him that your bodies were touching. He didn't look back, but the hand that was holding his phone dropped it in his pocket and fell to his side. You tangled your fingers in his and moved to walk by his side. You could breathe.

…

Back in the hotel room you felt better. You didn't want to harbour hurt like that, so you did your best to leave it all at the door. The room was on the corner of the twenty-sixth floor. That meant the living room with the floor to ceiling windows wasn't the only space with views. The marble bathroom with the huge spa big enough for four people also looked out over the city. You sat on the bed and watched through the door as Van filled the tub with hot water. His eyes narrowed as he tried to work out if he could mix the bath salt with the bombs.

If it was for him, he'd chuck it all in just for the fun. See what happens. Watch it all explode in an ugly mess. It wasn't for him though. It was for you and all he wanted was to make you feel good.

The living room was home to two sofas, an entertainment unit, and a personal bar. The room was obviously designed around the grand king bed. It was the type of room you'd expect to have a four-posted bed, honestly. Grateful that it didn't, you were more concerned with the ten billion mattress toppers that made the bed feel like a fucking cloud.

"Okay, darl', I'm just gonna put some of the salts in and then this thing that says it makes everything bubbly and colourful, okay?" Van called. You were rolling around in the cloud. 

"Yep, 'kay."

You got up and stood in the doorway, watching the spa quickly fill with pink and purple bubbles. The water stopped being visible underneath, but the last glimpses of that were sparkly and blue. Van looked very proud of himself.

"You're good to go," he said, hands out in presentation of his work. You looked at him.

"Are you… going to watch me get undressed?" you asked in a joke. He grinned in realisation, his eyebrows raising. He pointed to the door and walked out. You looked out the window. "Van! What about the window! People can see in here!"

"What people?!" he yelled back through the closed door.

"Creepy people with binoculars!"

He opened the door and reached in to turn the light off. The room went dark, but the bright city below gave everything edge and shape. You threw your clothes across the room and climbed into the spa. Bubbles spilt over the side. Instantly, your body began to relax. The water was all silky with the salt. Your body would be glittery for days.

You listened to the television in the other room go on. Van's flicking through channels meant he was restless. He needed something to do. You gave him fifteen minutes or so to settle, but when he didn't you called out to him.

"Yep?" he asked through the door.

"You can come in. Dressed in bubbles." The door opened, and light flooded it, but he closed it quickly behind him. "Whatcha doing?"

"Nothing. What are you doing?"

"Nothing. Maybe you could read me the dessert menu?"

He quickly retrieved the room service menu and read it out loud to you. Some of the words were foreign to both of you, too fancy to have ever come across before. He did his best to pronounce them. He was so easy to love.

"Think we should get one of everything," he decided.

"That's both gross and excessive. We'll pick three things. One thing you'll definitely like, one I'll definitely like, then a mystery one," you replied. He nodded.

"You're so smart. What do you want?"

Your choice was a chocolate hazelnut pudding. Van got a banana split that came with gooey brownie and honeycomb. The wildcard was dessert nachos: baked chocolate and cinnamon tortilla chips, strawberry and basil salsa, chocolate drizzle and smooth vanilla and matcha ice creams. They arrived and Van brought them into the bathroom. He sat on the floor passing plates to you as you requested them. He liked the nachos, but left the matcha ice cream for you. The green made him suspicious.

When the plates were cleared, Van brought more champagne in. He'd changed into track pants and a plain black t-shirt. Sitting on the edge of the spa, his foot jiggled with residual energy, or nervousness, or whatever. You watched him as he watched the city.

"Get in," you told him. He looked over.

"Huh?"

"Get in," you repeated. You moved through the bubbles and water and splashed at him.

"Yeah, 'kay."

He slipped straight into the water. Obviously he was aiming to make you laugh, but you held it in.

"How heavy are those track pants now they're drenched?" you asked, smirking.

"This was a mistake," he answered.

He struggled to undress under the water. His clothes hit the bathroom floor with a loud wet sound. The water from them drained away.

The spa was large enough that you didn't have to touch at all, but you wanted to.

"Feet," you whispered, and he knew what you meant. Sitting on opposite sides, you pressed the soles of your feet together under the water. Risky, really. One slip and you'd be kicking each other very painfully.

You hadn't felt so safe in so, so long. You bent your knees to sink down under the water. Only your nose and eyes sat above the bubbles, which were starting to melt into the water. Soon there would be nothing but the cover of not-really-darkness to hide your body from Van. He watched you go down, his eyes following your movement instinctively.

"You good?" he asked. He meant is this helping? Was bringing you here a good idea? Are you healing? Can I help? Please tell me I'm helping. I think I'm falling in love with you.

"I like it here," you replied. You meant yes, Van, there's not been a single thing that's helped as much as this. Yes, of course I'm healing. New York is stitching me back together and it's only been a couple of fucking hours. And, I think I'm falling in love with you.

…

You both wore the fluffy hotel nightgowns to bed. There was something about the softness against your clean, bare skin that felt royal. Like the bath, the bed was big enough that you wouldn’t have to touch at all. But, on your side looking out the windowed wall, Van cuddled in behind you. You pulled his arm around you to let him know it was okay.

Sleep was seconds away when you caught a glimpse of white. A little gasp and you were tapping Van's hand.

"Van! Look! It's snowing! New York snow!"

He chuckled and nodded, but didn't look over you to see the snowflakes melt against the glass.

…

As promised, the next day would be a Central Park visit. Bagels and black coffee from a street vendor, you walked through the park. The contrast between the dirty concrete city and the green of the park was almost impossible to reconcile. You'd seen aerial photographs of it, and those alone were beautiful and unnerving. Walking off the sidewalk covered in melted snowy sludge, into the crispness of the park blew your mind. You watched as runners and people on bikes sped past, their breaths visible in the cold morning air. Everyone had a life of their own, and a place like Central Park was a reminder of that.

You followed Van to sit on a bench. He pulled his legs up onto the seat and sat cross-legged. Strange. You looked at him.

"They'll know I got food and climb up and steal it," he explained. You were sure that was a bit dramatic, but when a squirrel appeared out of thin air on the seat next to you, you were a little terrified. "Fuckin' told you they're like rats," Van whispered.

"Should I give it some?" you asked back, not moving.

"No! He'll just go fuckin' tell all his big rat friends and they'll all come over."

Logical, but you went against it anyway. Pulling a piece of bread from the bagel, you threw it across the bench. Before it could even fall between the slats and hit the ground, the squirrel dove for it and disappeared up a tree. You turned and smiled at Van.

"Now you've fuckin' done it. Look!"

There were more coming over, climbing down trees like furry rat spiders. You made an uneasy sound.

"They're meant to be cute,"

"Yeah. Things ain't always what they seem, darlin'. Come on, before they eat you alive. You got that pretty skin they like," Van said, poking your side as he stood. You let him pull you up and into a hug. He smelt like the previous night's bath, and the same shampoo you'd used. Somehow though, he still smelt like him. No aftershave. Clean clothes. Still, Van. He'd always been like that. Even sweaty and days without a shower, bundled up in the back of a bus, he'd still smell like himself.

You must have hugged back the way Van wanted you to. Walking aimlessly through the city, he'd stopped frequently for more hugs. He said it was to let you look around, take it all in, but as his hands ran up and down your back and his hips pressed into yours, it felt like more than thoughtfulness.

Breaking apart, Van's hand found yours as you walked from Central Park to Times Square. The sound and the sights were overwhelming. Flashy and loud. Not what either you or Van were really into. He was clearly on a mission though. And as the giant M&Ms came into focus, the aim was clear.

"Nooooooo! Oh my gosh," you whispered, shaking Van's hand. That toothy grin and he was all but skipping.

Three stories of colourful, perfect chocolate. Van followed you around as you tried to make decisions. They would just never be enough room in your stomach or suitcase to get everything you wanted.

"Guess I'll just have to bring you back, yeah?" Van said as you agonised over if you wanted a souvenir mug or pillow. When Van picked a mug, you wanted to match, so the decision was made.

"Hi, guys! How are you going today?!" a girl, that like the squirrel appeared out of nowhere, asked. "Have you guys thought about getting your own personalised M&Ms today?"

"My own what?" you asked, almost dropping the mug. Van laughed. You turned to him. "Did you know this was a thing? Why are you withholding information?" He laughed again and pulled you into a hug.

"No, darlin', I was gonna tell you later, when you thought you were done, so it would be all like… surprise!" he explained.

"Oh! I'm sorry!" the girl said, covering her mouth with her hands. "You guys are such a cute couple. Come with me and I'll get your names on some straight away!"

Neither you or Van corrected her. Maybe she called it. Maybe that moment was the start of your relationship, officially. Although, you'd obviously belonged to each other for years.

With your bag of chocolate, Orange character mug, and cup of personalised M&Ms (you and Van had gone halves in each, so you had some of his and he had some of yours), you left the place never happier to have a sore tummy.

"I need a nap now!" you called back to Van as he followed you down the street. He took your bag and carried it with his.

"Back to the room. Nap. Late lunch?" he asked.

"Yep."

…

When you woke up in the hotel bed, the sky had turned. It was brilliant blues and pinks, a cold afternoon ready to give way to the night. The room was quiet, save for the sounds of the radio playing in the next room. You rolled over to find Van under the blankets next to you. He looked up at you and smiled. You smiled back and wriggled down to be face to face with him. Bunny kiss.

"Hi," you whispered.

"Hi,"

"Whatcha doing?"

"Nothing. Napping with you," he replied with a little shrug.

"But you weren't asleep,"

"Don't sleep much. I was just watching out for you,"

"Watching out for me in the fanciest hotel ever? What's gonna get me here?"

You didn't get it at first, but as his smile faltered, and he worked quickly to get it back, you knew what he was thinking.

"Didn't look out for you proper before. Gotta make up for it.”

There was no point in trying to tell him he wasn't the one who was meant to look out for you. That responsibility was everyone's and nobody's all at once. The burden of that guilt would probably sit in him forever, but the burden of your hurt was more important. Even if there were a point to making Van feel better about the role he'd played in your relationship with Patrick, you didn't owe it to him to do that. You just wanted to be equal. New York could do that.

"Can you pass me the M&Ms please?" you asked. He grinned and reached over to his bedside table for the cup. As you ate through them, he watched quietly. "You're taking this watching out for me thing very seriously,"

"Yeah,"

"Are you gonna stare at my face for the rest of our lives?"

"Probably. You know, if you let me," he answered. You put the cup down and looked at him carefully. "What?"

"Nothing," you replied. Lucky you were lying down because your legs had turned to jelly and there were butterflies working their way through all your internal organs.

"Do you want to have another bath or something?" So, he felt the same then. He was reacting to the quiet, the intensity, the space between you and him in the fluffy hotel bed.

"Are you trying to get me naked again?" It could have been an innocent joke. Your tone was even, and the intent was unclear. However he wanted to answer, he could. Banter back, or otherwise. You waited for him to say something. Instead, he glanced over your shoulder to look out the window. It was going to snow again. He sucked in his bottom lip and ran his teeth over it. Lips parted, he looked as though he was going to speak, but then he shook his head a little. A micro-movement that was almost non-existent. Van looked up at you. There wasn't pity or hurt in his eyes. He didn't look at you like you were a wounded puppy in need of rescue. It was all want and love. His hand reached out and his fingers hooked over the waistband of your track pants. He pulled you closer, then pressed his head to yours.

"Could just skip the bath, I guess," he whispered. He kissed you and you would have sworn every single part of you felt it. Toes tinged. Inner thighs ached. Hearts skipped beats. Spines twisted. Healed bones forgot they were ever broken. You kissed him back and nothing had ever been more right.

The second night you ever spent in New York was monumental. You wouldn't sleep, instead drifted from bed to bath to nest of blankets pushed right up against the window. Van would ghost along behind you, kissing lines across your skin and trying to make you laugh with stupid jokes he read online. "I've hacked it," he said when he connected his phone to the free hotel wifi. You threw a pillow at him and requested more champagne and M&Ms.

Back home, weeks, months, years later, whenever anyone asked where you'd like to holiday, where your favourite place in the world was, the answer was always New York City.


End file.
